


Rescue

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Brother Dean, Brotherly Love, Gen, Harm to Children, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Protective John Winchester, Sam Has a Fear of Clowns, Scary Clowns, Vomiting, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:25:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6665836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>anonymous asked:</b><br/>could you write about sam around age 14-17 being kidnapped and tortured by people who hate john but they dressed up as clowns hence sam'a phobia of clowns and dean freaking the hell out, flipping tables and everything? thanks!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deer in the Headlights

* * *

 

“Dad.  _Dad._ Sam’s not - fuck - Sammy’s not here. I can’t - I can’t find him anywhere. His things are here. His fucking - fucking shoes are here. I can’t - _fuck_.”

Dean’s voice is breathless, panicked. He presses his hand against his forehead and looks around wildly, as if expecting his little brother to pop up beside this anonymous phone booth beside the motel.

_I was just kidding, Dean, c’mon._

He feels like vomiting. John’s silence doesn’t help: the connection rattles idly.

“Dad! Fuck, I’ve only got a minute left and I don’t have any more cash, what do I _do?_ ”

Finally, John responds.  
“Go back to the room. Keep a gun ready and keep looking for Sam. I’ll be there in thirty.”

“Thirty?” Dean spits back, unable to keep his volume down, “Dad, this is  _Sam._  Sam’s fucking fourteen and he’s missing!”

“I know, Dean. I know how old my son is. What do you think I’m going to do before I turn up there? I’ll drive through town and make sure he’s not in the library, that -”

“I already called the freaking library! He’s not there, he’s not anywhere, I swear -”

“Calm down, Dean, and do what I told you to do. We’ll find him.”

 

* * *

 

Sam’s not entirely sure where he is. The lights are off - blurry, unfamiliar - and his mouth is full of something that tastes of mold and the trunk of a dirty car. He can’t get it out; it’s digging into the corners of his mouth, bending them into a grimace, and his saliva has soaked it through.

“The spawn’s waking up.”

“Good. Let him. What time is it?”

“Around - 4pm, or thereabouts.”

“Good. John should be aware by now. The other kid’s twitchy like that.”

Sam blinks. The voices are just like the lights: on, off, distant, close by, crystal clear and then muffled as if he’s hearing them through a pillow again. And he’s nauseous, his entire body shaking with sickness. Bile rises up his throat, but he can’t move - the gag’s still there, and his entire mouth fills up, burning liquid spilling into his nose and onto his face through his nostrils.

“Shit. Shit. Fuck. He’s choking. Get that thing off of him or we lose our upper hand.”

Glove-covered hands tear at the cloth inside Sam’s mouth, and he feels the binds holding him down loosen up just the same. In a flash, he’s up, gagging, coughing, tears flowing down his face: he hears the contents of his stomach hit a stone floor somewhere nearby in a sickening splash, but he can’t see much through the blur. His heart is racing and his head is swimming and distantly, he realises how close he was to death - how close he _still_  is. Still shuddering, he raises his head a little to look around, trying to make sense of the situation, but every single person around him is costumed. Hell, it looks like he’s walked into a circus. White-painted faces with horrific, stretched grins stand around him, one bent next to him, eyes hollow and staring at him. The real mouth in the midst of the painted one is spread into a similarly cold, exaggerated grimace.

“Hello there, boy,” it spells, the voice echoing inside Sam’s head.

He’s been drugged, but with what, he can’t tell. They don’t teach you that in school and he’s never been captive before.

“We want to make your daddy pay, and you’re here to help us.”

“Let me out,” Sam says, but his voice is a hoarse series of crackling hisses with his throat still burning and full of bile.

“Uh-huh. Now that won’t do.”

Of course not. Sam’s eyes flicker towards the stairs he sees ahead - they’re in some sort of a basement - but another clown moves to cover his view to it. This one isn’t smiling, not even in paint; his mouth is an imitation of a frown surrounding thin lips pressed together. His eyes look non-human, but Sam can’t pinpoint how.

“What are you?” he asks instead.

“Your daddy knows,” the nearest clown cackles.

“Shut him up,” the voice that seemed in control before speaks again: it belongs to a short but broad-shouldered clown in a red velvet suit who isn’t looking towards Sam, “The less we chat, the less he knows, and the less he knows…”

The nearest clown takes a look at the cloth on the floor, the same one that was blocking Sam’s mouth before. Then, smirking coldly, he turns back to Sam.  
“Now we both know you don’t want _that_ back in your mouth,” he says in an amused tone, “and you heard the man, so… do us all a service and don’t utter a word, alright?”

Hatred flushes through the fear in Sam’s gut.  
“My dad will kill you,” he hisses.  
In reward, splitting pain hits him out of nowhere. He can taste blood in his mouth, and his cheek has buried itself into the crowns of his teeth. Gasping, he tries to trace the hit down to someone: on his side, a fourth clown stands, looking satisfied with himself.

“Your dad,” the chatty clown growls, his voice coming off distorted through the ringing in Sam’s ears, “has already killed us. What worse can he do, really…?”

 

* * *

 

It’s taken too long. It’s been hours - hours and a series of taunting calls to John’s mobile phone, calls that Dean doesn’t know the content of, and which John won’t tell him about. For the past forty minutes, they’ve been driving down a road to nowhere, or at least that’s what it’s looked like to Dean. Civilization has turned to rural wilderness, a patchwork of forest and field and pasture with windows of old farmhouses lit within a falling darkness. He’s just about to ask again when John steers the Impala off the unpaved road to a road that Dean couldn’t even _see_  from the bushes and overgrown grass. It renders the question void: wherever they’re going, they’re getting closer to the end of the road. This one won’t go on for much longer.

There are bushes growing on both sides of the track, and young and old trees mixing up with their branches hanging over the road, their long claws dragging over the car’s roof and windows as John keeps driving faster than the environment would permit. The shape comes out of nowhere, like a deer bouncing from the rows of stark shadows and the branches shining white in the headlights: it’s bent to all fours, fingertips grazing the path as it falls on its knees.

Not _it._  Sam.

Dean’s out of the car before it’s stopped, and that’s saying something given how swiftly John’s foot kicks into the breaks. He stumbles onto the moving ground, rushes forwards until his fingers grasp at Sam’s torn, bloodied shirt, until he’s got his arms around the thin and stretched boy who just last night slept beside him on the too-small bed, curled up and scared after a nightmare drove him out of his own bunk. And he can’t breathe: he can’t bring himself to look, so he just holds, feeling the warmth of his brother against him, mouth spelling words he isn’t hearing, as his ears only seem to have space for the silent sobbing of the kid he’s holding tight.

John has a shotgun. He moves beside them, tears Sam away from Dean, looks at him, turns his head, wipes the bubbling blood off of his mouth and seems as if there’s a wildfire burning just beneath his skin ready to explode.

“Dean.”

Dean doesn’t recognise his own name. He keeps looking at Sam, his fingers tracing the shape of his bony shoulder, the soft flesh of his arm underneath the sleeve of his shirt.

“Dean!”

John’s voice is like a blow to the face. Blinking, Dean turns towards him.

“Sir?”

“Take your brother. Drive two miles back until you see the crossroads with the red and white post boxes and the pasture. Wait until I come back.”

“Sir, I -”

“I need you to be there for Sam.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sam falls back onto Dean when John lets go of him. His shape thuds into Dean’s chest and Dean’s already got his arm around him, and he’s holding him up when John disappears out of the reach of the headlights still shining behind them.  
“I’ve got you, Sammy. Got you,” he breathes, palm stroking Sam’s back, catching him shaking so badly it’s audible in his every hitching breath, “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

 

* * *

 

He can’t talk. He doesn’t know why his voice doesn’t work, but it doesn’t, and neither do his legs or his arms, really. The only thing Sam can do is curl his fingertips into Dean’s flannel when Dean picks him up from the ground and drags him inside the car. He barely manages to hold himself up when Dean then circles the car and gets behind the wheel, and when he’s there, Sam’s arms give in and he simply falls against Dean like an oversized doll. And that’s how he feels, too; like a lifeless object that’s been torn and thrown, beaten until bits and pieces have fallen off. Already he doesn’t remember much, only flashes and the renewing pain, perhaps because of the drugs in his system or because of the fear - he doesn’t know how he got out, only the sensation of his arm slipping out of a bad grip and the stinging pain as he fell shin-first into the stairs on his way up. He recalls, like cut frames from a movie, the beaten-down door and the overgrown lawn and the fresh scent of an early evening, the wreck of a car, the house falling behind him, and then pictures upon pictures of branches and bushes as he charged through the forest towards nowhere in particular. He recalls the flash of headlights in front of him and the stupid faith he had in those belonging to the Impala, recalls making the turn for it and then falling in front of it, and then Dean, and Dean’s warmth, his arms around him, the scent of him, and John - John’s firm grip, the anger in his hold when he turned Sam around, barely glimpsing at the damage done.

The Impala stops at a crossroads. For a moment, there’s silence: the crickets in the early summer fields sound like waves in Sam’s ears, coming and going to the slowed-down beat of his heart. Then Dean turns, forces a smile on him and brushes Sam’s hair off his blood-stained forehead.

“Let’s take a look at those cuts, yeah?” he speaks, already leaning over the seat to grab the bag from behind them.

Sam lets him undress him - there’s nothing on him that isn’t irredeemably filthy, and he recognises the fact distantly, like it doesn’t really have anything to do with him. His shirt is torn and bloody and covered in mud and dust. His jeans are wet with piss and blood, brown from the knees, caked with clay around the ankles like his feet are. There are splatters of vomit everywhere. Yet somehow, it’s… it doesn’t register with him, not really.

“Yeah, someone’s taking a bath tonight. And it’s both of us, really.”

The alcohol stings when Dean wipes his face with it.

“Can’t do much about the bruises.”

Sam nods.

“You think you got any bones broken?”

Sam shakes his head. He keeps staring at the road ahead, naked and trembling, as Dean cleans his cuts and abrasions and the worst offending dirt off of him. Then, sighing, he dives into the bag with both of his hands and digs around for a while, finally bringing out a black Led Zeppelin shirt.

“Sammy?”

Sam makes a sound, barely recognising his own voice. It takes a moment for him to focus his gaze on Dean, but finally, he manages to anyway. The older holds up the shirt and presses it against Sam’s chest.

“You can wear this,” Dean tells him, “Just this once.”

“Yeah?”  
The voice that keeps coming out of Sam is broken and much higher than he’s used to. He sounds like a little kid. Weak. Powerless. 

Dean smiles at him again.  
“Yeah. Pull it on before Dad comes back.”

Sam does, but he’s not in a hurry. John doesn’t come back before his consciousness fades out, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Dean reaches over to open the door for John. The man stinks of blood and worse, but he seems mostly unharmed, discounting a blue-purple bruise over his cheek. The man sits behind the wheel and looks at Sam curled up on Dean’s lap for a good long while before raising his eyes to Dean and nodding quietly.

“They’re dead,” he breathes out as he turns the key in the ignition and the car shudders into life, “Every last son of a bitch in that shack is dead.”

Dean nods and leans his head to the window. One arm over Sam’s waist and one under his knees he readjusts them until he can rest his body, eyes closing even though he won’t be sleeping tonight. The radio’s on now, and John’s humming along to it, not because he’s feeling like it but just to calm his boys down. Dean knows it, and he lets the man’s voice resonate within his bones as Sam’s weight and warmth both pool over his lap. Time slips away, the road turns from dark to one striped with streetlights, and eventually they reach the motel room again. John moves in first - Dean follows, Sam still fast asleep in his arms. He’s growing fast, but tonight, he’s still light as a feather to Dean.

A low grunt escapes their father when the motel room’s door opens, revealing a tossed-over desk with a broken leg from behind it. Dean grimaces, bringing Sam closer to his chest, expecting John to tell him off - to tell him he’s going to pay for it on his own, to tell him _something_. Instead, he’s almost certain he can see a flicker of a smile flash over his father’s expression before the man turns and steps inside.

“Tuck Sam in,” he tells Dean quietly, “I’ll fix this goddamn room.”


	2. Foam and Wraps

* * *

 

It’s barely morning when Sam stirs again. This time, it’s not a fight against an invisible enemy or a reaction to some nightmare or another, but just him opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling with Dean for a while in complete silence. He’s wrapped up tight in his Zeppelin shirt, but it takes him a long while to sit up and smooth it out. When he does, he stays there, bathed in the morning light with his head hanging low, unmoving. Dean follows him up, brings his arm around his shoulders, and they keep sitting like that for a moment longer.

“You wanna talk about it?” Dean finally offers.  
A part of him wishes that Sam doesn’t - he wouldn’t know what to say, how to help him. The only thing he knows is how to get angry, but the people - monsters, whatever - who did this are dead. He’s got John’s word for it, and John’s word is everything. He trusts that they suffered; not enough, as nothing is enough for someone who beats up a child like this, but appropriately regardless. He hopes they each met a slow death, but outnumbered, deaths tend to come quickly.

When Sam shakes his head, the part that did want him to speak shrivels painfully. Dean’s barely heard him say a word since they got him back, but he’s been there before himself, not quite ready to talk again, not quite ready to face the burden it brings on him. So he accepts it, brings his hand through Sam’s hair and presses his cheek against the side of his head for a moment - just long enough to make it count, but not long enough for it to really register with either of them. He doesn’t know how to give good affection. He remembers their mother did, and he misses her sorely for a fleeting moment.

Then, determined to do what he can, he pulls himself up and offers a hand to Sam.

“That bath I mentioned last night,” he says with a weak smile, and Sam nods, allowing Dean to pull him up.

At least his legs hold now.

 

* * *

 

Sam’s eyes shift over John’s profile. Somehow, he expects him to be asleep, but of course he’s not. Their eyes meet, and Sam’s linger there despite Dean pulling him towards the bathroom. There’s a silent conversation between them that Sam can’t quite translate for himself, but after he’s turned away and Dean’s closed the door between them, he hears John sitting up in his bed. He feels guilty, knowing neither of them has slept through the night. If only he hadn’t gotten caught - if only he hadn’t been a burden, his family would be just fine today.

Instead, now he’s got this: a dead-weight silence lingering over everything, and Dean touching him like he’s made of glass.

The older leans over, starts running water into the dirty tub.

“Not really big enough for two,” Dean comments with half a smile.

“I’m not a baby anymore,” Sam replies dryly, pulling off his shirt and exchanging it for a fresh towel that he wraps around his form.  
Every part of him aches. Every cut is swollen and hot, every bruise a throbbing stiffness in his body. He feels like death. His mouth tastes like it.

Wincing to the pain, he reaches for his toothbrush and starts washing the taste away. Dean follows suit: he picks up his toothbrush, wets it, then leans to the door behind them and starts brushing. He’s got his eyes glued to the tub, a glassy look in them.

“’s my fault,” Sam spits out.  
There’s still blood in his mouth. He doesn’t know where the hell it keeps coming from.

“What?”

“It’s my fault,” Sam repeats and angrily washes off the bloody foam from his toothbrush, sticks it back in his mouth, “If I hadn’t gotten caught -”

“Shut up, Sam.”

Sam swallows around the toothbrush. Dean walks to him, leans past him to spit in the sink and flushes the foam down. His spit is white-and-blue, clean from traces of blood.

“Dad counted four of them in there with you. I’d like to see a kid fight that many monsters off unarmed.”

He props his toothbrush back in the cup and starts stripping. He’s taller, broader: as he stretches, pulling off the shirt from his frame, his skin stretches over trained muscles. Sam feels a sting inside him somewhere - jealousy or bitterness, he doesn’t know. He’s made of skin and bone and nothing, _nothing_  about that helped him yesterday.

Dean’s fingers run through his hair and for the first time, he feels dirty. All that sweat and blood... all of it’s still caked in his hair. Suddenly, his entire skin disgusts him.

“Get in the bath, bug,” Dean tells him, but he’s already halfway in, towel hung over the sink, “I'll wrap up the cuts once you’re out.”

 

* * *

 

It’s strange - Sam’s not really a kid anymore. Somehow, the bruises seem to highlight that as Dean sits on the edge of the bath and helps him take care of the injuries that are hard for him to reach. 

 _Sure he is_ , Dean tells himself, recalling how small and fragile the boy felt against him just hours ago. How small he was, curled over his lap. But today, suddenly, he just isn’t anymore. He’s not sure what it is, but something’s changed, and he misses the old Sam already, misses the innocence in him, the faith that doesn’t shine from him the same today.

 _Maybe it’ll come back_ , he hears himself think, but he knows better than that. Where has his own been all these years? He knows where he lost it: it burned to ashes with his home and his mother fourteen years ago. The rest of it has scattered along the roads of states all over America, bit by bit until he earned his title as a hunter. John refers to him that way now. Not that long ago, he was just his son. Now he’s barely ever that anymore. But Sam still is, even now that the boy in him has been beaten to death.

Dean pours whatever little remains of the motel shampoo over his palm and splats it in Sam’s hair, rubs it in. He’s not surprise when Sam pushes his hand away - at least that makes him smile.

“Wash it off and make way for me, kiddo. I’m cold.”

 

* * *

 

Sam sits on the toilet while Dean showers, still wearing the same Led Zeppelin shirt he borrowed him the night before even though he’s sure the time limit on it technically ran out already. He needs it, however; it smells like Dean, and something about that makes existing easier for him. His legs poke out from underneath it, conveniently exposed when Dean steps out of the shower, dries up and brings out the bandages. He’s quick with it, but there’s care in every one of his touches and the way he holds Sam’s leg up as he covers his battered knees with layers of soft cloth. He’s careful not to poke at the skinned parts of his palm when he holds his hand up and wraps that, too, and when he sticks band-aids over the smaller injuries, he makes sure to keep the glue off of any irritated skin.

Little by little, something in the way he covers up the evidence of last night’s violence convinces Sam that perhaps he’s right - maybe he didn’t have a chance. Maybe this _wasn’t_   his fault. If it had been his fault, someone would be telling him off by now. He’d expected that, really: expected that at some point, Dean would tell him to not wander off like that, or at least demand from him where he’d been and how he’d gotten caught. Or that John would have done it; John was rougher than Dean was. His voice was stronger, deeper, and he could dig things out of either of them with ease. Yet neither of them had so much as implied that any of this had anything to do with Sam, much less that he’d been at fault, and slowly, he starts trusting that.

“That’s it, little brother,” Dean finally mutters, packing away the tape and the remaining bandages and the stack of bandaids, “A few days and you’ll be back to normal.”

He stands up and the smile he has on him now isn’t weak or false. It’s natural, if a little weary, tired.

“You can keep the shirt until then.”

For the first time since the previous morning, Sam catches that smile and feels it over his own lips, too. He turns away, pretending the words don’t mean as much as they do. It’s just a stupid shirt, anyway.

“Thanks,” he grunts and wipes a phantom itch off his nose with the back of his hand.


End file.
